Garbage Bag Panties.

He looped the rope through the cuffs on my ankles and pulled it back, pushing my knees close to my chest before fastening the rope to the back frame of the bed. I don't know what's going on with me, but I cannot get enough of being tied down lately. I'm worried this is going to be like yoga. I spent a decade of my life dissing yoga, making fun of it as exercise, and then seven years ago, I tried it, and fell in love with it, resulting in the truly humbling experience of having to eat my words. I also make fun of rope and restraint, it's not malicious, it's light-hearted jabs, only because I lack the patience and will to be beautifully knotted into place, but I realised a week ago, while I was tied up, that you can really hurt a person by tying them, you can really render them terribly helpless as well. I don't know why something so obvious took so many years to occur to me.

Maybe he is right, maybe I am a dumb cunt.

He wrote that on my face before he started to tie me up. He took off most of my clothes, and with a big, black marker, wrote the words *dumb cunt* on my cheeks. I would explain how I'm not really dumb and why that's the reason it turns me on to be called dumb, but you know what, who cares? Who am I trying to be smart for? Who gives a fuck if i am *in control* in my day-to-day life and that's why I must love a man who tells me to squat over a drain so I can feel like a wretched creature while I piss? Who gives a fuck if i am really so smart, but insecure, about my intelligence and that is why it gets me off to be made to feel dumb? It's probably not even true. There's no control. None of us have that. Organise every thought you have in as many colour-coded files as you like, you still don't get to choose or know what happens to you. Read a million books and tout your intelligence by quoting people you deem impressive as much as you like, none of us really really know what any of this means or if we're learning in the right direction or if it's worth anything to know any of this at all. Everyday life isn't the opposite of being a tied up, helpless, dumb-cunt about to be used, I might argue that's exactly who we are to life all the time. Just, powerless and helpless creatures, trying to make sense of the conditions placed on us, acting on instruction by faceless conceptual entities, god or family or society, until one day, we die for reasons as unknown as the ones for which we were born. We're all just slaves to life, and so being a powerless dumb cunt isn't the opposite of who I *really* am, it's an extension, a sexually utopian extension that works perfectly but is so hard to look at.

I wonder when I decided that sexuality was the ugliness of the human experience, but it's definitely how I experience it. Nothing is ever joyful, beautiful or fulfilling, it must be terrifying, sad and maddening. It's never empowering, always demeaning. I know I'm supposed to be sad about that, I'm supposed to yearn for a place where I am free and experience myself as a truly sexually-liberated woman who lifts herself up through her own pleasure, but I find that so unappealing on a sexual level, I don't know why liberation must be a happy or moral place. Who decided that? Who even decided we must strive to be liberated? No thank you, lock me up. Give me something to fight against, something to reel under, something to resist and accept, something to suffer from, something to cry about, something that hurts me, something that breaks me, something that makes me scream, *something* that makes me sink to insanity.

He makes me sink to insanity.

As he tied my legs back, the plastic between my legs was pulled taut. It rubbed against my cunt and I began to moan. There's so much hair on my cunt these days, he won't let me shave it, because I forgot to shave it one day and he decided I must pay for that by having every shred of my dignity ripped from me one debauched layer at a time. Every night be puts on a pair of the disposable black gloves that he made me buy for him before he touches me, reminding me that he doesn't touch dirty cunts as he pulls the hair he won't let me shave. He keeps telling me he'll never let me orgasm again, and in the beginning that scared me, but now, I don't understand why I ever wanted to orgasm at all. Petty, momentary satisfaction. That's all it is. So fleeting it's almost not worth it, like a spoonful of sugar, it assaults your senses in its peak, and drains everything from you as it wanes. It might be better to microdose on honey.

"Please, take...them off," I said to him, between moans.

He leaned over my face.

"Take..what off?" He asked, making that face he makes when he knows exactly what I am talking about but he wants to make me say it.

"That," I said, pointing with one finger, in the direction of my cunt.

He leaned over to my ear, making ever hair on my body stand erect.

"Say it," he taunted, "Tell me exactly what you want me to remove."

I stared at him for a few moments, inhaling deeply and fighting the inevitable moment of shame rising like a rollercoaster to the top of the tracks, ready to plummet into a sea of adrenaline. I hate when he makes me say things, but it makes me physically experience my heart being thrown into a pile of mud and stepped on.

"Please, take off my garbage bag panties," I say finally, loud enough that he doesn't make me repeat it.

He laughed. I've said this many times before, but I'll say it again, all men sound the same when they're laughing at me, and I experience all of them, every single one who has brought me to my knees, when he laughs at me.

"What kind of person wears garbage bag panties?" He asked, into my ear.

What kind of person, indeed? 300 days a year, I don't even wear panties, they seem unnecessary and annoying, they are to me what bras are to most women. I hate them. He made me put those on. They weren't even really underwear, he brought a garbage bag from from kitchen and made me step holes into it before fastening the loose end around my hips. We were just sitting in our room, he made me sit on the chair in the corner and spread my legs so he could see all of me while we talked about movies being granted tax-exempt status, when all of a sudden, he stood up, walked over to me and started hitting me. Slapping me in the face and pulling my hair as he yelled at me for assaulting his eyes with my ugly, unusable cunt. I told him I was sorry, I've been saying that dozens of times every day for weeks, but I don't think it matters to him at all.

"I don't want to look at it anymore," he said slapping my mouth and shoving his fingers into it, "It's not enough not to touch it, I cannot stand to look at it."

I was just shutting my legs when he stood up and stormed out of the room. He came back with the garbage bag and made me put my cunt inside it. Telling me repeatedly that trash should be kept in its proper place. He wouldn't let me take them off all day unless I had to use the toilet, they were so uncomfortable, but worse than that, so constantly humiliating. It's trying to *feel* humiliated, it's a very sickening feeling, like watching a sickly dog drink water from a sewage line. It makes it hard to talk to him during the day, when I know that he knows what's happening inside me, and what's coming for me. All day I begged him to let me take them off, but he wouldn't, kept telling me he cannot have loose trash strewn around him. When he tied me to the bed, I couldn't take it anymore, if my hands weren't tied I would have ripped them off me. I had no choice though, begging is the only choice he'd let me have.

"What will I find inside your garbage bag panties if i took them off?" He asked, toying with them, and my clit.

"Trash," I said.

I believe it now, you hear something for years and years, you start to believe it, and maybe that's tragic, but maybe, it's okay to look between your legs and see trash. It doesn't feel sad to be trash, just demeaning, and that's the ugliness I play for.

"I have no desire to look at trash," he said tearing a tiny hole into the plastic, right alongside my asshole, "But I do need a hole to fuck."

He ripped the tiny hole enough to expose my asshole to him, and left the rest of it perfectly intact. If I hadn't been tied down, I would have experienced more of a struggle at that moment, I don't know how I know this, but i am completely sure of it, I don't know how it works but being immobile makes the emotions more pliable, and instead of begging not to have my ass fucked and crying at the thought of it, I merely closed my eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn't as unpleasant as usual, microdosing on honey for months makes a lot of pain easier on the body, I think, it wasn't pleasant either, I'm just saying that because I kept shaking my head from side-to-side like a crazy person. I may have screamed, but i don't remember, I may not have screamed either. In my memory, there is no sound except the rustling of the plastic between us, and his pelvis thrusting against my hips. As he orgasmed, he slapped me on the head, and reminded me that I am a dumb cunt. I agreed with enthusiasm.

He got off me and walked to the nightstand, slipping gloves onto his hands as the cum leaked out of my ass and all over the garbage bag I was wearing. He started to pry it apart from my hips, balling it into a deplorable little mix of man and plastic. He shoved it into my mouth.

"There," he said holding my mouth shut as the taste of cum and ass filled my senses, "I took them off, dumb cunt."

I moaned past the plastic and into his hand as I sucked on them. As I sucked on my garbage bag panties.